Husbands and Best Friends

My husband gave a card to me (many years ago) that reads, “Happiness is being married to your best friend.” It’s on my fridge and makes me smile every time I go for ice or ice cream or gogurts or popsicles or frozen peas. Happiness is being married to my husband. Seems as though, happiness for him is being married to me. (Unless, we are in the midst of a knock down drag out where I really want to knock and drag him out …and throw the frozen peas at him). The husband is rather adept at building a meaningful life with this ol’ frozen peas throwing granny. And because of those mad skills, I’ll be happy till the day I die.

I did not throw any peas last night or any variation thereof. I'm not mad at him either. But, today, I don’t want him to be my best friend. I want the feminine flavor. The one that shaves her legs and lives in Georgia. When we visit we lie awake at night and giggle like we are 12 years old. And then, we wake up and drink coffee and never run out of things to talk about or dream about. And then, we like to shop and walk and talk and think about decorating things and what’s cute and what’s not and then we drink wine and giggle and sometimes cry and sometimes laugh and then we do it all again the next day. And the next. I have never wanted to throw peas at her and she doesn’t leave her whiskers near my toothbrush.